The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1887-05-28
SHAMROCKS FROM ERIN.
sHANE's DEAD.
BY JOHN SAVAGE.

Ulster CHER OF MS Gay, Hau 50 uaidoso'
the English, and scofed at all their art
of diplomacy. their offers OF nobility
and reformatory patronage, that tn
Government seems to have deter
mined. either by force or otherwise, thu
Northern prince must be destroyed.
After living for some years the proud
ferocious, and feared ruler Of Ulster
he was at last murdered at a feast giyer
to him by the Scotch Macdonnells o.
Antrim, whose sept he had formerly
rayaged. The instigator Of this fou
treachery and s]augh .er was one Piers
an English officer and agent Of the LORD
deputy. He appropriated O'Neill's head
and received for it one thousand marks
from his master. "This CHASTITY head
was gibbetted high upon a pole, and
long grinned upon the towers OF DUB
lin Castle" For All account Of Shane
vide Mitchel's Life of Hugh O Neil q
SCENE - BEronE DUBLIN CASTLE. NIGHT
A CLANsMAN OF SHANE O'NE1LL's DlsCov
FRS HIS CHIEFS HEAD UpON a POLE.
know the pride
OF dying Oh the battle field, their broken
spears beside,
When victory gilds the CORY shrouds OF every
fallen brave,
Or death no 1aieS OF conquered clans can wh's'
yer to his grave.
May every light from Cross Of Christ that save
the heart Of man
BE hid in clouds Of blood before it reach the
Saxon clan;
For sure. o God!-and you know all. whose
thought for all suihced-
To cxpinte these Saxons' sins they'd want an
other Christ.
Is it thus, Q Shane the naughty! Shane the
valiant! that we meet
Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to guide
me to defeat;
Have no chiefor you no clan. TO give us
Or must too, be stutued here with thy cold
Thy CHASTITY head gins scorn upon old Dublin
Castle tower,
Thy shaggy hair is wind tost, and thy brow
seems rough With power;
Thy wrathiul lips, like sentinals, by foulest
treachery st1ng.
Look rage up>n the world of wrong, but chain
tiny fiery tongue.
That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the
ghost Of ColumblyiIl,
Whose warrior words fenced round with spears
the oaks of Derry Hill:
Whose reckless tones gave life and death to
yassas and to hnayes,
And hunted lords of Saxons into holy Irish
graves.
.Ibe Scotch n1arauders whitened when his war
cry met their ears,
And the danth bird like vengeance, poised
above his stormy cheers,
Ay, Shane. across the laundering sea, out
chanting it, your tongue
Flung wild un-Suxon war whoopinas the Saxon
court among.
just think Shane! the same moon shines on
litfey IS OH Foyle,
And sights the ruthless knaves on both, our
knsn,en to despO;
And you the hope, voice, battle-axe, the shield
OF us aud ours,
A murdered, trunsless, binding sight above
those Dublin towers.
Thy face is pacr t;ian the moon, my heart is
pulcr still
My heart? had 40 heart twas yours! to keep
or kill.
And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief-your
life, your soul. your pride,
i}ut they sought it in thy bosom, Shane--.with
proud ONeiu it dies.
You were turbulent nnd naughty, proud, and
keen as Spanish steel,
BUT who had right Of these, if not our listers
Cbief-O'N ei.l?--
Who reared aloft the Bloody Hand llntil it
palcd the sun,
And shed such glory on Tyrone as chief had
never done.
He was turbulent" with ,raitors--he was
Naughty with the fee
He was -'crueP say ye SaNbns? Ay! he dealt
yc blow for blow!
lie was trough" aud "wiid'--ar1 who's not
wild. to see his hearth-stone RACED?
Ee was 'merciess as tire"-ah, yc kindled hin,
he blaz' q!
He was proud proud OF birthright. aud
because he ungaway
Your Saxon stars Of p1incedom as the rock
docs knocking snray!
tIe was wild, insane for vengeance-nv and
preached it till Tyrone
Wes ruddy, ready. wild too. with ssRed Hands
to clutch their own!
>"rhe Sc IS arc on the border, Shane!'-ye
saints, he makes no breath!-
Z remember when lha1 cry would wake him up
almost from death:
Art truly dead ana cold: q Chief! art thou to
Ulster Lost?
''Dost hear, dost hear? by Randolph led, the
troops he Fcye have erussed!"
~ mr., So
ghost about,
And yet no tomb could hold bis spirit tame to
such 81 shout
The pale face droopeh northwar1--ah. his !
soul must loom ND there,
BY old Armagh, or Antrm's g!ynns, Tough !
Fovle, or Bann tie Fair!
I'll speed me U]stcl. wards, your ghost must |
wander there. proud Shane,
In search Of some O'Nell through whom to |
throb its hate again!
ANTRIM.
The result of the division on the night |
of April %. in The House of Commons,